Writer: Rowland Wells

Disclaimer:  I am in no way any part of Marvel Comics or any affiliation of their enterprise.  I do not own the X-Men or any Marvel Characters. 

Alternate

X-Men

#07

"we've got a file on you"

A worn-out white truck clambered along the deserted roads, in the middle of Nevada.  Dust trails issued from the back while it sped along the cracked tarmac.  Logan was driving in the middle of the Great Basin, unsure of where he intended to go.  So far, the week long excursion had turned up nothing for his efforts, and today was going to be no exception.  The scant number of road signs indicated he was somewhere around the Carson Sink.  All around were grand and beautiful aspects of the neighbouring landscape.  Jagged, rocky hills, part of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and rolling countryside that continued on into the horizon decorated the view.  The sun was sinking slowly into the desert dust, and Logan slowed the truck to a stop, rolled the window down and pulled out a cigarette.  He lit it, and tossed the match into the dirt.  Sucking back, he closed his eyes, and wondered again what he was doing there. 

As soon as they had got back to the Mansion, almost a week ago, Logan had kept to himself for a day.  He packed several things: a change of clothes, a map, shovel, torch, his camping equipment, and some smokes.  He talked to the Professor briefly, utilising Cerebro to inspect his tangled mind.  Logan already new his memory was utterly shredded, with pieces lodged in one place that were relevant to others, and large parts missing all together.  Navigating the guts of his subconscious was much too dangerous to be taken lightly, so the Professor was only ready to go so far, but what was not uncovered was still why his head happened to be so mystified.  Parts linked in with memories, such as the recurring dreams he experienced at night; where his body was being submerged in illuminated water, and scalpels were taken to his frail limbs.  The very existence of the metal bonded to his bones proved to be a handful when he dwelt on it; the six claws that shot out whenever he willed them to.  He knew that somewhere along the line, he had been recruited by certain figures and organisations to carry out sinister work, but why, and when, were still the key factors in his memory's reconstruction.  Perhaps he had been pulled beneath by mysterious figures who had forced him to undergo the procedures, or maybe he was in an accident whilst working for one of the companies – he just couldn't recall.  The dreams, though, were becoming more potent, surfacing in his waking thoughts as well.       

Logan stubbed the butt out in the ashtray, and flicked it out the window.  His weary eyes observed the picturesque sunset with longing intensity.  Smoke drifted past his eyes, and he fully exhaled, puffing it all out the open window.  'Time to go.'  He muttered, and started up the engine.  The truck lurched off into the distance, blowing up more dust in its wake. 

                                                *        *        *

The late afternoon heat of New Orleans in the summer was enough for anyone to want to take a siesta.  It wilted flowers, peeled black paint, and made the tarmac stick.  On the edge of the city, areas still needed to be upgraded and fixed to fit precisely into the twenty-first Century.  Much of the suburbs still resembled the old fifties, run-down heated atmosphere of a mid-west swamp state; buildings with cracked wood, and hot-dog vendors shouting their food across the courts.  Too much of the noise penetrated through open windows, and although he tried to keep the room as cool as possible, Victor Creed had difficulty trying to sleep.  His extra-sharp senses picked up on the bustle and commotion in the streets below more than anyone else.  He shut the blinds carefully, and lay back on the rugged bed in nothing more than torn trousers.  His eyes closed finally, and he managed to block out everything.  Sleep soon embraced his tired body. 

Unfortunately, the door to his apartment was thrust open, disturbing his half-dozed form.  Several black-suited, large men barged into the room, flicking guns out at him.  Victor sprang up from the mattress, scrambling into a corner.  'What the hell do you think you're doing?'  He called.  The men brandished their weapons, and stood fast without saying anything.  He glanced at the window, now shut.  In a lightening quick action, he dived for the glass pane, but two of the men tackled his huge mass, and flung him back into the corner.  'What do ya want?'  He shouted again.  Another man walked between his followers into the room, and wielded a hefty-looking pair of handcuffs.  'I got a feeling you know what we want, kitty, so play nice, and you'll get outta here without a scratch in that lovely fur coat…'  The man approached him, opening up the binders.  Victor hissed loudly, and vaulted backward into the corner.  He supported himself with both hands, and his flailing legs took care of the man.  The two window-stoppers lunged for him, but Victor held his body against the walls, and kicked them both across the length of the room.  He jumped onto the other two, crushing them against the blackened floorboards, and hurled himself through the wooden door.  Running past the splinters, he bounded up the flights of stairs, aiming for the roof top.  'Don't just sit there; get him, ya lazy gits!'  The leader shouted.

The roof access cabin burst open, and Victor leapt across the top, landing on another building.  A pop of blood exploded from his arm, and he faltered as the black-suited men aimed at him with silencers.  He kept quiet, but he knew why they after him.  He was going to get taken home, to be reunited with the family once more.  'I know you don't want this, kitty, but you shouldn't make it any harder than it already is!'  The leader called again.  Only he was up on the roof now, the others having disappeared.  Victor analysed the path, and then made for the final rooftop.  His hairy arm leaked blood down to the dust, staining it a musty orange.  He bolted, and the leader briskly followed, nearly catching up.  The concrete shattered as several more bullets stuck in the bricks.  Victor took a supreme final leap, and careered over the height of the road below, smashing through the glass window on the building opposite.  It split apart, as he rolled through and then down a flight of stairs. 

Picking himself up, Victor was surrounded by the other men all of a sudden.  He punched one of them away, and spun to get the others, but was shot in the forehead instead.  Staggering, he then gave way.  They fastened the handcuffs on his limp wrists, and the leader walked over, hoisting the body onto his shoulders.  'Time to get the Sabretooth back, boys; your jaw looks broken – perhaps get someone to take a look at that, eh?'

                                                *        *        *

Exiting the cinema complex in uptown New York that evening, Hank led Ororo from the doors, past the hordes of adoring fans, there to catch a glimpse of their favourite movie stars at a premiere.  The neon lights of a world first for the new movie were blinding; they glowed brightly above the fans, and all up the side of the cinema complex.  Many people were coming into the building and out of it, reporters and camera crews everywhere.  Amid the bustle, Ororo was trying to get out onto the street, behind all the commotion.  She took him by the hand, and they were out.  The fans flooded into their position, and the two were lucky enough to escape.  People brushed past each of them, still running for a quick peek.  Hank started to feel quite queasy, a little dull in the face, when Ororo checked him.  They walked into the light of a lamppost, away from everything.  'You don't look all that good, Hank – a little green maybe.'  She said, passing a head over his forehead.  'Have you felt like this since you got out of medical a couple of days ago?'

'I think it must be because of that; I seem to have overexerted myself a little.  When's the next bus coming?'  He asked, leaning against the post.  He breathed deep, coming around fully.

'Five minutes.  What did you think of the film in there?'  She said, watching the roads.

'Not very challenging, was it?  Anyway, I didn't really concentrate on it to be honest.'  He winced slightly.  'The pain doesn't affect me regularly anymore, just seems to kick in when I exercise or go too far in one day – gotta have rest.'

'Cheer up, Hanky-babe.  It'll get better, and before you know it, you'll be on the road to recovery.  Besides, [I don't think you need to exercise].'  She said, audaciously.  Ororo stroked him on the back, and they smiled to each other expressively, just as the bus arrived.

                                                *        *        *

Watching the guards patrolling the corridor below, Remy waited for a gap to appear in their paths.  He flipped open the ceiling grate from inside the vent shafts, thrust his head through, and disabled a camera facing away from him.  He plucked it off the wall, and stashed it behind him in the vent.  The pattering of feet came and went as his sensitive ears picked it up.  Dropping through the entrance, and ran for the nearest door labelled 'Hanger Access'.  He started to sweat, the cold sting of panic creeping up the back of his neck.  'I've got to leave…'  He mumbled, searching out a viable way of getting to the vehicles.  The footsteps sounded a little closer, and Remy was forced to start on the electronic lock.  His fingers graced the panel, and it rapidly heated up.  The circuits shuddered rapidly and then melted, gaining him access past the security.  A clunk of cold steel resonated in the next corridor as the door slid shut.  Remy darted toward the corrugated doorframe that revealed the hanger beyond it.  He took care of another camera that looked at him suddenly, its red light flashing.  He knew now that it would only be a matter of time before the guards would be after him.  All the secretive, espionage action in the world couldn't help him now that he had been located.  To Remy, it seemed so casual, and his mistake would cost him once the agents were set loose.  He spied a snowmobile opposite, and looked to the exit.  A huge hunk of reinforced steel was their excuse for a door.  He went over to it, tracing calloused fingertips over the joints.  'Never again.'  He said, charging them up.  The red alert sirens whirred into life overhead, and he stepped away, staring at them.  The door in front exploded, blowing off the hinges.  It took a huge effort to prise the frame off enough for the snowmobile to edge out, but Remy straddled its sleek design once they were free, and started it up.  Agents burst through the door, finally gaining entrance to their hanger.  They dashed to the entrance, wrenching the crushed metal free, and ran after Remy's disappearing form. 

Snow laced trees, rocks and gullies were his scenery while he made his path away from the underground facility.  The snowmobile took several bullets in the back, piercing part of the chassis covering the tank.  A slow stream of petrol leaked over the snow as he shot by, ducking and turning on the vehicle.  Sizzling shots of gunfire echoed over the forest hills as the agents came out after him on their transports.  Remy, dodged a large boulder, and then crossed its shadow to drive through the incoming attackers.  He was having great difficulty maintaining the control over this unpredictable machine, but slowly, his hands got a feel for the motorcycle-like movement.  The end of a large tree branch fluttered past his cheek, scraping the flesh away, and Remy lurched to one side, dodging any further encounters.  The enemy engines roared into range, and more bullets spurted at his advancing form.  The snowmobile bounced over a high ledge, and Remy found himself flying through the air on the back of this awkward beast.  It collided with the ground, and he was thrown forward into a stony bank as it cleared his path, and smashed into a line of trees.  The agents slowed to a stop above him, on the ledge, and several descended.  Remy got to his feet, and picking up a large rock, he charged and then hurled it at them.  One agent's chest burst open, and he crumbled into the melting snow, while the others beat Remy down.  He hit several out the way, and took off up the bank.  His foot was lost though, and he fell, striking his chin bloody on the stones. 

A large, brutish looking man emerged, and took hold of his leg, dragging him onto the ground.  The nametag on his lapels read 'Cmdr Spaskyich'. 'Good on you, boy – only the Wolverine's ever got this far and lived to see another day.  Where did you think you were gonna go?  Nothing but snow round here.'  He stamped down on Remy's knee, cracking it satisfyingly.  'Don't you know we got com chips implanted in every mutant in this facility, or did you think you were exempt from that?  Huh?'

Remy rolled about on the floor, sobbing.  'Funny to think this is the third time we've had to reclaim our property.  Stop_running_away!'  He knocked the mutant around the head several times, emphasising his point with brute force.  He brushed the running blood over Remy's ragged shirt, violently kicked him once more, and then faced his lieutenant.  'Damn French prick - beat him until he can't feel anymore; oh,' he remembered 'and make sure he's got a straight jacket on whenever he's in his cell.  Tie him up to the hooks – yeahhh, you know what I mean.  If his bitch says anything, then break her as well.  Damn muties need to be taught some discipline.'

Spaskyich took one last look at the mutant, and then mounted the other snowmobile, and drove off back.

The agents surrounded Remy's writhing body, arranging to pick him off the floor.  'Merde!'  He screamed, before they hoisted him up.

                                                *        *        * 

'Yeah, I touched the fat one.  I don't think he even realised – must have put it down to the effects of his operation.  Anyway, I got away, and went back to the helicopter.'

'So you've got everything then – you remember much of it already?'

'I remember immediately; no waiting.  I went back to the tower block, but the pilot isn't ready yet, so we'll be a bit late for you.'

'You're soundin' awful despondent for my liking, girlie – make sure you don't take that tone with me in person.  Ever.'

'I've got all the information about the Mansion, sir – the layout, who's there, where they sleep, the defences, what kind of toilet paper they're using – everything.'

'Damn straight, you slinky little cow.  Don't screw with me, or I'll make sure you regret it.'

'Do you want me to get anything else for you sir?  So you don't break my legs?'

'I don't want anything else – and I ain't making any promises on that, either.  By the way, we found your boyfriend trying to leave without you.  Were you close?'

'God, what have you done with Remy?'

'Come back and you can see – just try not to mess me around.  We're watching all the time and you can't take a piss without me knowing 'bout it.  Seeya later.'

'Is he alright?  Hey, is he alright?  Spaskyich!  Damn you!'

                                                *        *        *

The gun-metal grey walls of the basement reflected Logan's mood.  Dreary and tired, they looked back with equal enthusiasm.  The faint noise of the Professor's motorised chair buzzed down the corridors, and Logan drifted aimlessly toward it.  Lights lined the sides of every passage in the basement, illuminating the path somewhat eerily.  The sterile ambience made him slightly nauseous whenever he was down there, and the vents, sucking out musty air didn't add to make a spacious atmosphere.  He stepped slowly into the war room, leaning against the entrance, while staring as Charles sorted the paper files into every cabinet.  He sighed loudly, grabbing attention, and cruised into the room.  'I didn't find what I was lookin' for.'  He stated, sitting in a chair.  'I guess Weapon X moves almost as well as the agents working for it.'

Charles placed the last of the folders away, and moved his chair around to face him.  'It's late.'  He said.  'Do you want to talk about all this tomorrow?  I'm okay to stay up though, if you are.'

'Don't worry - I'm just peachy, Charles.  As I was sayin' – I must've been out in Sierra Nevada for a week, and not once did I come across anything that resembled a base or outpost.  I can't remember that much; but when I broke out, the place was poking through the earth, and I do recall something like what I saw there; flat, dusty plains, and miles of rocky hills and mountains.  Nice place fo' vacation, but I wasn't interested in that at the time.'  He replied.

'You were out there quite some time, Logan – you must have found traces of information, such as whereabouts of people who worked there, or parts of the structure coming out of the ground.  Didn't you find anything?'

'I'm telling you, Charlie, I searched high an' low.  There ain't nothing left there, if it even ever existed.  Maybe I got the whole concept mixed up.'  He trailed off, biting his nails idly.  There was stillness between them.  'Would you take a look in my head again?  See if you can't find any more pieces of evidence – I need to get this figured out.  I feel like that whole trip was a waste o' time.  I'm getting' angry.'

Charles nodded, and set his chair out the corridor, and to Cerebro. 

The unit was housed on the inside of a large sphere; with steel panels covering the walls.  They held the vital circuitry and technology that enabled the Professor to enhance his telepathic abilities almost a hundred fold.  With such an immense capability, he could potentially lock onto the certain brainwave frequencies of anyone, and therefore manipulate them as he wished from his location.  He needed the extra power to fully investigate Logan's tangled subconscious, but even with the boost, he might not be able to decipher what was actually in there.  Placing the headset, Charles switched the machine on, and let Logan stand behind him.  Cerebro was part of an extended platform that protruded from the entrance to the sphere.  The room misted over, and Logan closed his eyes, unaware of what he might experience with the power of his mind rushing about the two of them.  'I'm ready for anything you've got to show me!'  He called. 

As the mist swirled and parted perpetually, the shaky view of dull, dank walls and ceilings appeared.  People in uniform staggered to and fro, waving arms in front of the view.  They bore black clothes, the logo of Weapon X clearly visible.  Hands came into sight, six silver miniature incisions apparent.  They were his hands, and this was his view of the installation from pieces of his memory.  The vision gave way to another; a badly lit room with no walls, no freedom, just the endless embrace of lasting darkness ready to suck and pull him in.  A tank of viscous green fluid swayed serenely amid the heavy atmosphere, and the silvery flash of scalpels, bowls and long, thin tubes resonated all around him.  Mumbles and skittering laughter echoed throughout the dream, but as quick as it arrived, the vision dispersed once again.  'I'm trying my best to find the information related to this particular set of events.'  Charles explained, concentrating solely on the established images.  Only a hideous, gurgling vulture laugh was left, stinging their ears.  Representations of people set still among the haziness came into view.  A tatty, ragged man, roughly Logan's age emerged – ten small claws on the tips of his fingers shining bright among the darkness.  He was exhibiting a toothy leer, and wore a dark, musty trench coat.  This icon was prevalent, but next in line every time they appeared was another, burly individual.  Scarred and coarse, he was adorned with a standard black Weapon X uniform.  The final sequence of events Charles could locate was the escape; darting images of rocks, sand and trees – slipping, sliding and falling much of the time.  The entire visualization was fraught with misinterpretation and inaccuracy.  Only Logan's subconscious truly knew of those events, and no amount of insight on Charles's part could ever unearth the deep-rooted horrors lurking in the corners of Logan's mind.  After the sequence of images started to repeat, Charles ended the process, and replaced the headset.  He watched as Logan returned to earth.  'I'm sorry, but I can't make much sense out of that.'

Logan brushed it off, and made for the door.  He was shaken, and needed time to recover.  'What do you want me to say, Charlie?  Ain't nothing nobody can do to make me feel better.  I wake up hearing that laugh sometimes…'  He shivered, barely bothering to hide it.  'Do you know what it's like to be so haunted by your past that it affects you as a person, even after all these many years?  I get changed each time my mind has one of its little revelations.'

'We're all torn apart by our demons at some point in our lives, Logan; it's just that you can't seem to get your head around why you are.'  He replied, trying to comfort.

'I was taken against my will, man – I was ripped from where I was, and shot full of all this shit, and then they made me into even more of a goddamn freak!  I'm not like the other kids here, I can't remember anything!  Anything!'

'You have to get along with it just the same as everyone else, Logan.'  He assured him, starting to loose his patience.  It was too late in the evening, and they both were not thinking clearly.

'Magneto was right, we are damaged goods…'  He muttered angrily.

'What the hell do you want me to do about it – huh?'  Charles shouted, a sudden rush of irritation welling from inside of him.  Talk of the passion with which Magneto had asserted himself in their past was destructive to his beliefs, not to mention his ego.  Somehow, it had sparked off an intrinsic revulsion at the blinding certainty that stayed with Charles all his life.  'I'm trying to help you, why do you push me away so easily?'

'I don't know!'  Logan yelled, confused.  He stared the Professor in the eyes unfalteringly.

'You're a lost cause – I try to tell you where to look – I risk my health delving into your head, when my own is packed full of things to think about… God, if you're confused about whom you are, and you want to find out, do it on your own time, but while you work here, teaching the kids, then you live by how I run things!  I was generous to you before – most of the time, I disregard a person's history, and judge them by whom they are now, but you took that leniency for granted!  If you're not happy with what I do here, then go back to killing people for money, whatever – I'm not interested anymore!'  Charles brushed past him, and out the door.  The room seemed a lot smaller without his presence. 

Logan contained his rage until the Professor had gone, and then burst out in a loud cry.  He slumped back against Cerebro's computers, and fell into reverie.  'Jesus, I need to get this crap outta my mind now…'

                                                *        *        *

Warren stood over his bed, packing several large suitcases with clothes and essentials for his trip.  He had already placed everything he needed in the biggest of the cases, and was now putting the smaller possessions into another one.  It was late in the afternoon, right before the dinner was usually served, but Warren had had his earlier, and maintained that if he was going to get to the airport on time, then the only way was to miss dinner with the others.  He was acting as an emissary for registered mutants in the United States to discuss the recent incidents that occurred in London, due to mutant terrorism only a week earlier.  He was going there alone, and without any known mutant affiliation, so the Xavier Institute would never come up.  Because Canary Wharf had been bombed when a mutant terrorist action meeting was scheduled, there had been much controversy amid the damaged city, but finally a summit was being held to examine the remaining problem.  Warren was an ambassador for his people, and due to the injury to his left wing, it made perfect sense that he leave the team until he could perform again.  He had been the one to raise the issue, and Charles had reluctantly agreed, afraid of losing students, but understanding that Warren had influence among the politics and finances of the world.  His family name was synonymous with wealth and power in America, and hopefully he would be able to swing that freedom among the politicians in England.

His wing ached regularly, the muscle still torn and burnt, but Warren was using physical therapy to get it back into shape.  There would still be time until the feathers grew back fully, if at all.  He might have to get artificial replacements.  A knock sounded at his door.  'Hey man, getting ready to leave?'  Hank said.  He held a beer bottle, almost empty, in one hand.

'Yeah – just finishing packing.  I've called a cab and it should get here in five minutes or so.'  He noticed the bottle in his hand.  'Are you good enough to start with those again?'

Hank laughed, and picked up one of the suitcases with relative ease.  'Sure am, though Tessa says I have to go light on my feet, otherwise I might pull something.  The surgery has left me with a new view on life too, I think.'

Warren chuckled lightly.  'Like what?'  He held onto the suitcases, and pointed to the final one.  'Do you mind?'

'I came out of medical thinking that I was going to die, but because of everyone's efforts, I made a miraculous recovery – I reckon it's time to start living a little more dangerously, and stop being so reserved all of the time; at least that's the plan.'

They padded down the large staircase, and into the lobby.

'How more dangerous do you want to be, Hank?  You're already part of a "hands-on" mutant activist group – you got crushed by a falling building, then helped to protect the President from being assassinated.'  Warren replied, hearing the horn blast of the cab outside their grounds. 

'I had my eye on a girl here even before I went one-on-one with shanty town's city hall – plus I think she likes me too.'  He said with assurance.

'Ororo?  I suppose it could happen…'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence – anyway, it's just an idea.  I'm still the same old me, 'cept for this blue hair on my head.'

'You sure are, my friend.  Anyway, there's the taxi outside, so I better get a move-on.  Take care of yourself, and I'll be back before you know it.'  Warren stated, taking Hank by the shoulders.  'Go easy on everyone.'

He walked out the large glass door, and down the stony path.  The warm air was still breezy, and though he had spent a lot of the day outside, it was beautiful to feel it once more.  Hank leaned out and shouted after him.  'Don't worry about us – even in our state, we got everything under control!'